


Bet On The Bay

by girlintheglen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 04:06:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14708768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/girlintheglen
Summary: I borrowed the Baldwins from the Dagger Affair (ACE MFU books), by David McDaniels.





	Bet On The Bay

"I have a special assignment for you gentlemen …'

Alexander Waverly turned on the projector and a picture of an old house appeared.

"This, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, is a house in which you will take up residence for the next few days … uh, and nights."

Illya remained seemingly unaffected by the picture, or the thought of spending a night in the dilapidated looking structure. Napoleon, on the other hand, shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. It was not so much an attempt to gain the floor and speak as it was an involuntary reaction to the sight of the old house.

"Do you have something to say, Mr. Solo?"

Solo did not. Well, perhaps…

"I .. uh … well, I'm just wondering why, sir. I assume, however that you are going to … '

The old man's eyebrows shot up in a familiar expression of feigned surprise.

"Yes, well … I thought you … I mean, yes sir."

Illya thought his friend's reaction was odd, but he also had a certain amount of dread at the prospect of staying in the place. It looked like something out of a Hollywood horror film, and he had no inclination to play with whatever might dwell there. Of that he was fairly certain.

Waverly regained his focus and continued on.

"You .. uh… let me see… Oh yes, you will be meeting a young woman there who has information for us regarding a new THRUSH threat to humanity. She assures our San Francisco office that her sources are reliable and that she … ahhh… Let me see … Her name is Veronica Revere, by the way. Miss Revere is related to the late THRUSH Council member Arnold Revere."

He looked up and examined the faces of the two top agents in North America. Seeing no recognition of the name, Waverly pressed on.

"Arnold Revere is a little before your time, and this woman is his great-neice. She inherited the house from Revere's son who had no heirs of his own."

Napoleon made a sideways comment to Illya, slightly under his breath.

"No surprise there, eh, if that's where the fellow lived."

Illya smiled, looking up to see if their superior had overheard the comment.

"Yes, quite so, Mr. Solo. Adam Revere died alone in that house, an old man who also had ties to THRUSH. This young woman seems to be the only remaining member of that family and wants nothing to do with the Hierarchy. She has contacted us in order to turn over some documents that she thought might be helpful in some way."

Napoleon wondered about Miss Revere, but held out little hope that she would be of interest to him, other than as a source of information. As looked at photographs of the two men he reckoned that if she looked like them the trip would be devoid of temptation at least.

"Very well, gentlemen, you have the file and your tickets are waiting for you at my secretary's desk. Have a good flight, and do try to stay out of trouble. This assignment shouldn't cause too much trouble, I should think. I certainly don't expect to see any new suits on your expense report, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon smiled but managed to retain a slightly quizzical expression.

"Ah, no sir. No new suits. We shall return with information in hand."

"See that you do, dismissed."

With that the two agents were dispatched to San Francisco and a night, not on the town, but certainly on something out of the ordinary.

 

Having been dispatched to San Francisco on a mission to retrieve information of an undisclosed nature, Solo and Kuryakin were now grievously devoid of not only the mission but their weapons and communicators as well.

The young woman who had lured them here with promises of secret THRUSH documents had managed to bat her eyelashes and flirt until that distraction had netted her two roughed up UNCLE agents. The two thugs who worked for Veronica Revere were, in addition to being very big, wizards with a roll of duck tape.

The two top agents in the Northwestern Region sat in a cold basement of the spooky old house, wrapped up like parcels waiting to be mailed. Illya's black jeans were dirty, his turtleneck ripped so that a bruised shoulder was exposed. He didn't actually remember the battle, but as usual the scars were evident. His hands were behind his back, securely fastened with the aforementioned duck tape. The blond's ankles were also wrapped tightly.

Napoleon was similarly trussed, his suit a sad and battered image of the formerly impeccably tailored garment. He couldn't possibly be blamed for this. It was as though the enemy targeted Solo's suits; as though they knew Waverly was watching.

"I wonder how we're going to get out of this one, tovarisch?"

Illya glared at his partner, a scowl was not far off.

"If you had simply resisted the impulse to flirt with that woman, Napoleon… I need some sort of remote, so I can turn you off."

"Hey, I can't help it. Besides, you didn't exactly refuse her flirtations, Illya. As I recall, when she sidled up next to you …"

The Russian's blue eyes warned of an approaching storm.

"All right, that's enough. What we need is a plan, and as I recall that is your forte'. So, do you have one?"

Napoleon attempted to feign indignation but it was no use. The ambiance was lacking.

"Not exactly, save the one where you wiggle out of your duck tape bonds and then cut me loose. Is that not what you're going to do?"

Illya shook his head. It was always up to him. Always. And so he went to work, contorting his body so that his hands could slide beneath his rear end and legs. He managed it, although his shoulder felt oddly out of place and the process became so painful he thought he might pass out. Napoleon noted the change in his friend's complexion, the sudden palor.

"Come on, Illya … "

Solo winced at the pain he knew Illya was experiencing. Finally the process of disengaging was completed and Illya fell back against the concrete wall.

"Are you all right? That looked like it hurt."

Without swearing out loud, Illya convinced his partner that it had indeed hurt and if Solo so much as winked at a girl after this he might find himself in serious trouble from the Russian. Amazingly he did that without any words passing his lips.

With a great deal of effort the injured agent was able to get himself up off the floor and go in search of something to cut the tape that encased his wrists and ankles. That the search was done in a hopping fashion was the source of some amusement to his still bound partner, although he was careful to conceal it.

Finally, and with the occasional grunt of discomfort, Illya located a small hacksaw with which he cut the tape on his ankles and then, proving once again his remarkable dexterity, managed the duck tape on his wrists. Free at last, he was able to better inspect the damage to his shoulder, at least as well as he could by rotating it and feeling it with his right hand.

Napoleon waited not to patiently while this self-examination was in progress, anxious himself to be free.

"So, any time tovarisch."

The smile was a platitude, and the Russian remembered, once again, the outrageous flirtation that had occurred just moments before the first goon threw him against the wall. That moment of impact is what was causing him so much pain at present.

"I should let you sit there while I go search the house.'

Napoleon cocked his head to one side, as though he hadn't heard correctly.

"However, since my shoulder is quite painful and I shouldn't like to encounter another of Miss Revere's henchmen…"

The blond knelt down in front of his partner and with some difficulty, sawed a sufficient rip in the duck tape for Napoleon to pull it free, then repeated the process for his wrists. When the American was completely free he stood and attempted to straighten his suit. It was no use.

"I can't believe I'm going to need to report the loss of another suit."

Illya shook his head, letting his tongue make a sound very much like tsk, tsk, tsk. It eased his pain only slightly.

"Come on, Napoleon. We need to get out of here. You can straighten your crease later."

The two men walked silently to the door that opened to a steep staircase to the main floor. It wasn't locked, which meant, most likely, that Veronica and her men had left the house. Cautiously opening the door, they looked up into a dark space with no light at all

"Going up?"

Napoleon took the hint and led the way upstairs.

 

The UNCLE agents made a cautious entry onto the ground floor of the old house, an unnecessary step as it turned out. There was no one home, and the only signs of life were two unopened bottles of Grand Marnier in the center of an antique dining table. Attached to one bottle was a note.

"Gee, who do you suppose these are for, Illya?"

The Russian didn't smile at the facetious question. He was feeling the pain of his encounter with the THRUSH who had thrown him into an unyielding wall. Napoleon's attempt at humor was ignored.

"I suggest you read it and find out."

Napoleon smirked at his partner's lack of humor before remembering the state of his suit; his own wry wit was diminished somewhat at the image of Mr. Waverly reading his expense report.

"Well, I might as well. Perhaps it's a clue to their whereabouts.''

Removing the note from the bottle, Napoleon thought of a number of women who would enjoy sharing it with him. Illya must have read his mind because he snatched the note out of his hand, hissing at the pain in his shoulder as he did so.

_"If you're reading this, congratulations are in order for your escape from the basement. Please consider these bottles a type of apology for your mistreatment at the hands of my associates.'_

_Illya looked up at Napoleon, but neither of them dared conjecture what was intended by this message. Illya continued._

_"My great-uncle was a member of THRUSH, as was his son. I was telling the truth when I disavowed the organization. However, these men who greeted you were sent to escort me, along with the information I promised to Mr. Waverly, to a meeting with one of Central's chosen representatives._

_It was never my intention to purposely mislead you, but once the threat was made to my own life I went along with their treatment of you. For that I am sorry. I do not know what my fate will be, but only understand that it was truly my intention to aid your organization."_

_(signed) Veronica Revere_

The two men looked at each other for a sign of some sort; an indication that one of them, at least, understood or believed the words in the note. Finally Napoleon spoke.

"So, where do you think they've gone? If she's telling the truth, that is."

Illya sighed, then cringed at the pain it caused his shoulder.

"It is possible that they might take her to Ward Baldwin's home, this is his territory after all."

Napoleon agreed, and in spite of having met the man and his wife, he in no way felt eager to encounter him again. The old fox was as clever as Waverly and dangerous in spite of the genteel façade he maintained.

"Let's check in with the San Francisco office first, before we call on Ward and Irene. We may not be as welcome as the last time our paths crossed.'

Napoleon took another look at his partner. The blond was in pain and needed some medical treatment before they encountered any more of THRUSH's finest.

"Let's stop in at the medical outpost, shall we.''

For once the Russian didn't argue, but he did gather up the two bottles of Grand Marnier in his good arm. He was certain they were going to need a drink before it was all over.

 

With the two bottles of Grand Marnier in hand, Illya followed his partner out through the front door of the old house. Napoleon had retrieved his communicator from an empty vase that sat resolutely on an antique buffet facing the table where they had found the liquer.

With the communication to the San Francisco office, it was established that the two New York agents would proceed to the home of Ward Baldwin, albeit in a less than open manner. Illya insisted that they watch the house before announcing their presence, something that Napoleon agreed to, in spite of it lessening his preference for grand entrances.

"Baldwin is a dangerous man in spite of his condition. I cannot imagine that his home is not surrounded by THRUSH personnel. I do not relish being ambushed again."

Napoleon had to agree with that line of reasoning. He could see his partner still wincing with pain when he used his arm, a reflection of the injured shoulder.

"We will need a position that isn't too obvious, then. Maybe we ought to turn in this car for something less…"

"Less UNCLE?"

Napoleon grinned at the rancor in his friend's voice. He really did dislike the little blue wonder car.

"Yes, a common sedan will do nicely."

Illya looked at his partner with a discerning eye, a slow grin emerging as he delivered a verdict.

"I believe you might also want to change clothes, Napoleon. That suit is in bad shape for calling on THRUSH's top man."

The brunet considered it, looked over the blond in much the same manner as he had been perused.

"You don't look so hot yourself, tovarisch. Maybe we ought to just go as we are, to illustrate how poorly Baldwin's henchmen are treating us."

Illya was shaking his head.

"Is that a yes or a no? I can never tell what you mean by that."

A small snort of amusement followed, and Illya explained his position.

"First of all, I really do intend to visit Medical and see if they can straighten out my shoulder. Unlike you, I will easily procure a change of clothes that will suit me well enough. You can take care of your own clothing needs while I am in the care of San Francisco's doctors."

Illya's willingness to head straight for Medical was an indicator of how painful his shoulder was, and Napoleon was willing to admit that he would rather arrive at the Baldwin house looking fresh and undamaged. Never let the enemy know how effective they have been.

"Very well, IK, straight to Medical for you and to the tailor's shop for me. I hope Ward and Irene appreciate all of our little preparations."

Illya sighed and leaned back into the seat, his eyes closing in a moment of needed relaxation. Napoleon turned the key in the ignition and headed for the city.

It was a three hour lay-over for the two agents. The Medical staff aligned Illya's shoulder in a wrenching motion that set it back in place with only a bare whisper of Russian from the blond. The doctor chose to not inquire as to the translation.

Napoleon was outfitted in a new suit, something befitting a day in San Francisco and decidedly more West Coast than East. When the two men met up again in the office of the San Francisco Chief, Illya was in his usual black turtleneck and jeans; it made Napoleon wonder how he always managed to find that same set of clothing.

Concerns about wardrobe were soon set aside as Napoleon and Illya pulled up in front of the old Victorian home that they knew as the residence of Ward and Irene Baldwin. Having met him a few years previously while in the company of their own superior, Alexander Waverly, the two agents still retained a sense of the couple's hospitality during the Dagger Affair. In spite of the courtesies bestowed by the Baldwins, there was no doubt as to their loyalties or the commitment to see THRUSH succeed in its endeavors.

It was nearing five o'clock, and here on the West Coast the sun was beginning set behind the big house. Another hour and it would be dark.

"Do you suppose he has Veronica in there?"

Napoleon didn't turn to look at Illya as he answered.

"Maybe. Hmmm… I wonder if Robin still works for the Baldwins?"

Illya didn't reply, but he did remember the pretty blonde nurse and her brilliant blue eyes. He and Napoleon had both been rather smitten by the young woman, in spite of her association with THRUSH.

In the deepening dusk it was more difficult to see into the shadows, but Illya spotted someone emerging from the side of the house from behind a row of bushes. It was one of the men who had been at the old Revere house.

"One of our welcoming committee just showed up."

"She must be in there, Illya. Let's…"

Napoleon never finished his sentence, he was too distracted by the gun that was nestled against his partner's blond hair.

"Why don't you just ease out of there, Mr. Solo, and I'll try to resist the temptation to blow a hole in your partner's head."

The big man talking was the same one who had slammed Illya into the wall the night before. Somehow it wasn't a stretch to believe that he would, indeed, shoot the Russian at the slightest provocation. Napoleon put his hands up, then opened his door and slid out from behind the steering wheel in one smooth motion. Illya was staring straight ahead, his breath seemingly on hold until the gun was removed.

"There, I'm out and so … Your turn. Please put the gun away, you already have us at a disadvantage."

The big guy straightened up and motioned for Illya to get out of the car, then with the gun rammed into his back began to push the smaller man into the street.

"Why don't you lead the way Solo. Blondie and I will be right behind you."

With that dubious bit of direction, Napoleon crossed the street and headed up the slight incline towards the Baldwin house. He was being careful to not aggravate their captor and hoped that his stubborn and slightly irascible partner would observe the same cautious behavior.

As the trio reached the front door it was opened from within by another man, but not one that the UNCLE agents had encountered previously.

"Ah, come in, please. I hate to sound trite but we really have been expecting you."

Napoleon smiled in a cautious manner while Illya was shoved into the foyer in a manner that indicated some sort of unresolved annoyance on the part of the burly fellow holding the gun. A slight grunt reminded Solo that his partner was still hurting from the last encounter with this goon.

"You seem to have us in the uncomfortable position of being ignorant. We have come here in the hopes of meeting with Mr. Baldwin. Is he home?"

The one who had welcomed them into the house shook his head, and from inside the living room another voice answered the question.

"Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin … please, come in and join me won't you."

It was Irene Baldwin, the same genteel woman who had stood by her husband the last time she was visited by UNCLE. Now she was alone, and Napoleon was beginning to wonder about the situation they had stumbled into.

"Mrs. Baldwin, what a pleasure to see you again."

Napoleon strode across the room and took her hand in both of his. Something wasn't right here, and Ward Baldwin was nowhere to be seen.

"Mr. Kuryakin, come here as well. Dominic, you can go now, these men are my guests."

Dominic nodded and with an economy of movement that belied his size, was soon out of sight. Napoleon took Irene's direction and sat down in the chair opposite her while Illya sat on the couch at her side.

"You are wondering, no doubt, about Ward and Miss Revere … this entire situation. I will tell you as much as I can, but if you have come here to talk to my husband … '

Irene seemed to lose her concentration for a moment as she looked off to an unseen place.

"Ward is ill, very ill. Robin is still caring for him, only now her services are even more important to his well being. If you like I will take you to him, and then perhaps you will do something for me."

Napoleon and Illya exchanged looks that held questions and some skepticism. What could Irene Baldwin possibly want from them?

"I would like to speak with Ward, if that is at all possible. If we can do something for you, within reason of course, we will try."

Irene sighed, looking first at Napoleon and then Illya. She shouldn't involve these men, and yet …

"Follow me, gentlemen. Ward is down this hall."

The UNCLE agents fell in step behind Irene Baldwin, following her down a hallway that led past several large rooms and finally into one that was full of medical equipment and a hospital bed. Ward Baldwin was not awake, perhaps unconscious by the looks of him. IV lines were pumping something into his veins as the thin figure lay beneath white linens, his complexion only slightly more tinted than his bedding.

"Ward had what we thought was a stroke, but now suspect was an assassination attempt. He's been mostly unconscious for the last three weeks."

Napoleon caught a glimpse of his partner in a rare moment of surprise.

"Someone in THRUSH?" Illya asked the question, his voice almost unbelieving. Irene nodded, as though reluctant to actually voice her suspicions.

"What does this have to do with Veronica Revere? Did you stage all of this…?"

That took Irene by surprise, and she refuted the idea vehemently.

"No, oh my goodness no. That situation is real, but her life was in danger for what she was doing and I had Dominic bring her here. I apologize if he was rough with you gentlemen, but …'

Was that a twinkle in her eye?

"Well, you are UNCLE agents, after all. We had no reason to believe that she was any safer with you. But when I was informed that if was the two of you, well… I was hoping you would help me in exchange for the information Veronica promised you."

Now it was Napoleon's turn to be surprised.

"You want us? To help you?"

Irene nodded.

"Yes. I want you, Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin, to find out who tried to murder my husband."

Now each man looked at the other for some type of help. Would they do it? Should they?

It was time to call Mr. Waverly.

 

Napoleon and Illya could only stare at the lifeless form of Ward Baldwin as they listened to his wife tell of the assassination attempt that had left him in this state. Someone within THRUSH itself was vying for the old man's position and influence, and willing to undertake the dangerous path of eliminating the competition.

Ward Baldwin wasn't just any competition however, and his wife, Irene, was an unlikely grieving widow; more of a lioness protecting her cubs, or in this case, her mate. The two men from UNCLE wondered about how they fit into this melodrama.

"Irene, how is it that you consider Illya and me suitable … '

Napoleon was at a loss for words. Even should Mr. Waverly approve this strange request, what could they do about what was a singularly THRUSH dilemma?

"What is it, exactly, that you think we can do for you?"

Irene Baldwin looked from the brunet to the blond, appreciative of their talents and intellect. If anyone could find her husband's attacker, it was these two.

"You can do your job, Mr. Solo … Napoleon. You and Illya are possessed of extraordinary skills when it comes to tracking down THRUSH villains, and the man who did this to Ward is a villain."

Her expression was so earnest, neither man had the heart to refuse her. In the time they had spent here the previous year, Irene had been completely hospitable and kind to them. In spite of her wayward allegiance to THRUSH, they had a certain affection for her that defied their differences.

There was something else, however, a feeling that Irene wasn't telling everything. Napoleon set about to coax the woman into divulging whatever missing element there might be in the story.

"Irene … without insulting you or your hospitality, is it possible that you're not being completely honest with us?"

It was almost impossible to resist Napoleon when he set his mind to charming the truth out of a woman, and Irene Baldwin was no exception. She considered for a moment, and then expanded the story of why she had summoned the UNCLE agents.

"There was a message waiting for me when I brought Ward home from the hospital."

Illya cocked his head, the question visible before he spoke it.

"What sort of message?"

The gaslight that was the choice of the Baldwin's for illumination began to cast soft shadows about the room. Irene hesitated, her eyes straining to see into the blue of Kuryakin's.

"The message said, "Only the best will be able to find me. Get Solo and Kuryakin, or Baldwin will surely die."

Napoleon cleared his throat, Illya remained stoic and impassive.

"I see. And, just what do you think was meant by this message, Irene?"

"It's personal now, Napoleon. What does it matter if Irene knows or doesn't know?"

With a glance Illya conveyed his willingness to participate in what was now a challenge to him and his partner. Napoleon agreed; he put in the call to New York. Mr. Waverly would certainly have an opinion about all of this.

While Napoleon consulted with their boss, Illya and Irene carried on a conversation of a different nature; an attempt to discover something that might give the UNCLE agents a lead.

"We were enjoying the day, Ward and I. We decided to take a few hours and visit the zoo, one of our favorite haunts these days. Ward does love the big cats, and on the day of the … '

Irene paused, intent on replaying the events exactly as they had occurred.

"We were visiting the tigers, and just as one of them stood up to stretch, a whirring noise rushed by me and … Ward slumped over, stricken by an assassin's arrow."

Illya was immediately stunned by that detail.

"An arrow? Someone attacked Ward Baldwin with a bow and arrow?"

Irene looked up into the blue eyes of the Russian agent, searching perhaps for solace.

"Yes. In broad daylight in front of the tigers display, an arrow with a poison tip found its target in my Ward."

At that moment Napoleon rejoined Irene and Illya, and observed the look on his partner's face.

"What? Is something wrong?"

"Ward was shot with an arrow. That is the most extraordinary thing, is it not?"

Napoleon caught the meaning of that, but not without a shudder at the memory of the last encounter they'd had with an archery aficionado.

"Haven't we done this already?"

But Voegler was dead. Who else had the same penchant for archery as the Voeglers as well as a vendetta against UNCLE?

Illya absently let his hand go to his shoulder; the one where a scar marked his encounter with a barbed arrow in the low country of South Carolina. Irene observed the silent communication, the involuntary signal of recognition and … what was that? Illya had a particular sense of what was going on, she knew it.

"Have you already discovered who this is then? Your faces betray you, and I think that you, Illya, might bear the mark of the same assassin who tried to murder my husband."

Napoleon assessed the implausible and the probable. Sometimes the two were closer than first impressions would indicate.

"Perhaps. Mr. Waverly has given us permission to help you, Irene, but only on one condition."

The wizened dame of San Francisco's THRUSH satrapy scrutinized the handsome Solo; he was a sweet young man but he was UNCLE, after all.

"And what is the condition Napoleon?"

Illya wondered as well, hoping that they would not have to battle their way out of San Francisco as they had done after their last sojourn among the Baldwin nest of birds.

"No interference. Not from you or any of your people. We do it our way, and we do it with complete freedom from harm by anyone in THRUSH. Can you guarantee that?"

Irene took a deep breath, causing the ruffled jabot of her white blouse to jostle slightly as she exhaled. She then extended her right hand to Napoleon.

"Very well, Mr. Solo. On my honor, you and Illya will encounter no ill will or treatment from anyone here. But, I warn you, the assassin has his own network of people; I can't speak for any of them."

"Understood. Illya?"

The blond nodded, his expression was solemn as he considered the unpleasant scenario of yet another of Kurt Voegler's family out for retribution; not only against Ward Baldwin, but possibly him as well. Better to find them now and end it before anyone else was hurt … or worse.

"We should not waste any more time. I have a feeling I am now the sacrificial lamb in search of an altar."

The two agents exchanged knowing looks as Irene Baldwin sat down next to her husband's bed.

Soon. It would be over soon.

~~~~~:

Illya and Napoleon encountered another Voegler in The Archer's Revenge, a sequel to The Virtue Affair.

~~~~~:

 

In spite of the dread brought on by the disclosures made by Irene Baldwin, Illya determined that he would not miss an opportunity to dine on San Francisco's finest … Chinese takeout. He had found this city's offerings to be the best of any he had tried, and regardless of whatever they might be facing tomorrow, tonight he would have Chinese food.

Irene had one of her attendants go and fetch the desired items so that the UNCLE agents could continue to speculate and plan. Ward slept on, unaware of what was going on around him and for him. If Napoleon could have changed anything, it would be the prospect of meeting yet another deranged Voegler. Their last encounter had been life threatening to the Russian, and the probability that this latest attack on Baldwin was related seemed irrefutable.

As the trio of conspirators prepared to eat from the various ubiquitous containers that always signified Chinese cuisine, the question on their minds was who it was that had engineered the attack on Ward. To the best of UNCLE's research there was only one Voegler son, and he was dead. It was going to be difficult to find another person on whom to hang this deed if no other members of the family could be identified.

Irene was chewing on a crab Rangoon as she considered the problem at hand.

"Napoleon, Illya, I think that there must be a woman involved. It has all of the markings of a female's plan. And now that I think about it, the only woman who has been near enough to infiltrate my home and surroundings is …

"Veronica Revere!" Both men let it out in a unified exclamation. Of course, why had they forgotten about her so quickly?

"She lured us to San Francisco under the pretense of this information she possessed, and was able to entice Irene and Ward to take her in and protect her. Clever young woman…"

Napoleon remembered the attractive Veronica, as did Illya. His impression of her was slightly less romantic, however.

"She must be connected to Voegler somehow…"

Just then the woman in question entered the dining room where the Chinese feast was taking place. It was perfectly timed, finding them all like this in the throes of discovery. She couldn't have imagined it more perfectly.

"Yes, I am connected to Kurt Voegler. He was my other uncle, the one who didn't work for THRUSH. He was, however, my favorite uncle and since his son was unable to bring you to justice, I have taken it upon myself to make certain that you pay for his death.'

She held a small caliber pistol in her hand, no longer attached to the notion of a bow and arrow for her vendetta.

"You, Mr. Kuryakin, are especially to blame for the demise of my family. Dear uncle Kurt was your first victim, my cousin Danby the second. And now, along with the head of THRUSH San Francisco and his wife, you and Mr. Solo will all be dealt the consequences of your acts."

As Veronica raised her arm to take aim, a shot was fired from the hallway. Stunned but not fatally wounded, she fell to the floor in a heap. Behind her stood Ward Balwin, raised from the nearly dead.

"Oh, Ward darling…"

Irene rushed to him, throwing her arms around the man who had just saved her life. The man who was her life.

Illya and Napoleon sat still, unsure whether or not to venture forward to see about Veronica or simply stay seated and finish their meal. Working among THRUSH was terribly disconcerting.

Two days later found Solo and Kuryakin seated at the big table that served their superior. The three of them were discussing the events in San Francisco, the nearly miraculous, or seemingly miraculous recovery of Ward Baldwin and the surprising duplicity of Veronica Revere.

"Well, perhaps not entirely surprising, given her family tree."

Alexander Waverly harrumphed into his pipe as he spoke those words, unconcerned about the young woman's fate. She had tried to kill his best men and the Baldwins. That was bad form in his book.

"Yes, well I suppose we might have paid closer attention to her, or the lack of her. She did disappear from sight rather quickly."

Illya agreed. They had let that one slip past, an oversight that might have cost them dearly had it not been for Ward Baldwin.

"Do we now know why Ward Baldwin had such a timely recovery? He had seemed to be in a coma when we first looked in on him."

Now it was Waverly who nodded his head.

"Ah, yes… Ward was not actually comatose, his doctors had isolated the poison and the antidote had been very effective. He was waiting for the assassin to make her move, and when she did … well, you know what happened."

Yes, they did know. Napoleon and Illya exchanged a look that underscored how grateful they were for that small deception.

"So, what will happen to Vero… Miss Revere? She isn't THRUSH, but certainly her movements were being monitored by them."

Napoleon always had reluctance to seeing women brought to justice; something about it just rankled his sense of chivalry. Illya, on the other hand, quite objected to almost being killed. He favored letting the authorities have the woman and good riddance to her.

"I should think we will be well rid of her, Napoleon. I hope to never see another Voegler, regardless of the relationship. I have had enough of them to last a lifetime."

Waverly's pipe went out, causing him to fumble for another match and start the process again of lighting the briar.

"Yes, ah.. well … that will be all, gentlemen. Please have reports to me by tomorrow morning and … ah… good day."

With that the agents made their way to the door and down the corridor. The grey walls didn't reflect the moods carried by Solo and Kuryakin. Surviving another day, another dastardly villain… it did tend to put a bounce in a man's step.

"Do you have the Grand Marnier?"

"As a matter of fact … yes. Your place?"

"Eight o'clock. We'll drink to living through another one."

They parted and went in opposite directions, but for now they were still on the same path.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I borrowed the Baldwins from the Dagger Affair (ACE MFU books), by David McDaniels.


End file.
